The Court
by JonesyB
Summary: There are secrets only the King knows. The life and trails of young Clopin, the Prince of Knaves, and friends. A tale including but not limited to betrothal, adventure, love, and sorrow.
1. Ch 1

_**There are secrets only the King knows. **_**The life and trails of young Clopin, the Prince of Knaves, and friends. A tale including but not limited to betrothal, adventure, love, and sorrow.**

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**A/N **- Hello there! Well, I can say that this story, and the characters that it will include, have been causing mayhem inside my head for more than a year now. Yes, I think it is high time to post this tale (or numerous tales I should say) of Clopin's youth. It shall take account of all the people that have (in my head) effected him and made him into the king that we get but a brief glimpse of in the Disney movie. So, I don't know why but I thought this author's note was needed just to explain myself for this fic. One final note, I don't plan on making this any sort of mushy Clopin/OC but there will be many OCs.

So yes, an intriguing tale of friendship, gypsy kings, lust, passion, and eventual murder! Mwhahahaha! Why not give it a read, yes? Reviews are always welcome!

And now I give you The Court, our tale begins about 40 years after everything has happened and will be told in a string of flashbacks by our mysterious gypsy outcast.

_Hunchback of Notre Dame (c) Disney and Victor Hugo_

_**-JB**_

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"_Faith, she hears us  
__but she doesn't listen very hard.  
As she drifts through our lives,  
tossing coins into the air.  
Watch them twist,  
watch them fall,  
turning hope into despair.  
Watch them twist,  
watch them fall,  
then she suddenly revives  
every dream that we've had  
and we find ourselves alive."  
-_- Fate

* * *

**E**verything looked so different, yet exactly, _eerily_, the same.

A light dusting of snow covered the nighttime cemetery like a freshly laundered child's blanket. The snow created an luminescent glow as a gentle, chilling, wind brushed by now and again. The frozen ground crunched under my thin shoes as I kept forward, shielded from the weather by only the few rags on my back and a shawl I pulled tightly around my shoulders.

With each step forward, my heart seemed to race faster. For years I had this wicked thought in my mind, and on this winter night, I became desperate enough to follow through with it. Return to the Court of Miracles.

As I came upon the stone tomb, I nearly passed it by. I haven't seen it in almost forty years and I suspected I re-imagined it to be much more majestic in my head.

Its cold visage towered before me with a mocking air. We called it the king's chest, or even the great stone entrance. I knew it very well. From the pain it was to open to the first time I entered it, I remembered it splendidly.

Tonight was much like that first time I had entered decades ago. For one, I had ran out of options. Another, I was a woman with but one wish.

My wish then, as a young girl was to meet the grand and legendary Gypsy King. He went by many names, the King of Thunes or the King of Truands, but I would come to know him as only one; Remus, my hero.

I heaved the heavy granite covering to the side, not the easiest of tasks for a lady of fiftey-five.

I arched my back placing my hands on my hips anticipating an audible crack. I was definitely not the young woman I once was.

No, much has changed. Now as I enter the Court of Miracles I am not a wishful lass with wide eyes but a penniless, spiteful, street beggar yearning for a loaf of bread.

The description I came up for myself nearly makes me smirk. Never did I picture myself in rags and now, on this evening, I would think myself lucky to own a skirt without enough tears at the end to see my skeletal ankles.

Tonight, my only wish would be that the King of the Gypsies, whoever that title may fall upon, is a forgiving man.

You see, I was banished by the Court's last king. I regret to think on him. He was one of the greatest men I've ever known, and still, after all I loved him for, he banished me throwing me to the Parisian streets. I think of him as a great man still because, really, he had no choice I his actions. And if I was to ever find myself in the position he was in, I would do exactly the same.

Being left with no choice can put such impossible ideas into a starving woman's head, but I am desperate.

So desperate that even the fact that I could most definitely hang tonight does not faze me. That rope will far more kind, merciful, and gracious than any person, gadje or no, that has passed me on the streets.

With all these thoughts racing in my head, I dashed down the stairs leaving the nights brisk wind at my back.

I sloshed through vile water that met me at my ankles. Water that was so chilled that it physically hurt to stand in it. Wading through the water in pitch black darkness, tripping here and there, wore quickly on my elderly limbs.

Nevertheless, I kept on, my breathe growing ragged as the air became more thicker and more damp.

It took me a long few minutes before skeletons began to deck the walls and I knew I was close. I could not believe though how far the court seemed to have moved. I suppose the ankle deep water is much more forgiving to younger legs.

Finally, just as I had anticipated, a glow began to reflect off the water ahead of me and voices began to echo off the walls. I glanced behind my shoulder holding my breathe for what I knew was to come.

Standing still for a moment I witnessed light burst into the catacomb as about seven men lit touches and threw me to my knees. Immediately, the gypsies barked questions in my face, holding my hands roughly behind my back.

"Did someone send you here?" asked one.

"Are you a spy of that bastard Purid's?" inquired another.

I said nothing, only moved my face to the side to dodge their integrating suspicions.

"Well then!" came an entirely different voice (one oddly more jovial) from in front of me, "I hardly expected to catch an old woman in my trap!"

I looked up slowly to the man who stood with his hands placed heroically about his hips. I knew in one instant who it had to be.

"Yes your highness, a very apologetic woman," I answered meekly.

He smirked down to me, I noted he was quiet handsome, "Such a grand title! Your highness," he repeated with a dry laugh, "something one could get used to."

"I mean it only with the highest _mockery_," I quickly spat back gaining momentum in my voice.

At my statement the men held my arms back tighter. I let out a slight gasp but did not take me eyes from the figure who stood before me.

The King bent over to meet my gaze, "From what name are you come from, woman?" the laugh now gone from his voice.

"I have none," I answered stubbornly.

"Not a single name? Fine then. Been charged with any crimes lately?" he asked as if we were old friends discussing the weather.

"Only if one counts being abandoned by her people, bastard!"

At that one of the men holding me back jerked my arm harshly, "Answer to the King with respect, madam!"

The King raised a silencing hand to the man without taking his keen eye off of me.

"I see no king!" I continued, "his father may have been a great king, but he is not the man I look to with respect."

My words seemed to make the young man curious. As I looked to him now I noted his dark skin, black eyes, and reddish hair that fell in thick tendrils to his chest. I sneered to him as he only stared to me. I noticed how his eye lingered to my right ear where a single gold hope with a glass red bead hung.

He stepped forward to me and reached out a hand to touch it. I lurched back but allowed him to look upon the ring without too much defiance. He seemed to weigh it in his hand for a long moment before looking back to my face with sudden realization.

"_Mon dieu_, you've returned."

With those hushed words the King took me by my arm and briskly lead me back to the Court of Miracles.

* * *

All in one instant, the colors, light, sounds, and smells hit me and I was a child again. A thin hand went to cover my mouth as I saw my younger self dancing through the Court. I saw my friends, my sisters, running after me.

I was home.

I couldn't stop from sobbing leaning my frail body against the young King's.

"Come quickly," he said in a hushed tone taking me off to the side. I was unaware where he was leading me but I put my trust completely in him. Partly because I had no other choice and there was something about him that I instantly found reliable. I suppose it's a trait that comes naturally for all Trouillefou men.

The sounds from the center of the Court quieted as we found our way behind a wall of barrels, a rather isolated section of the Court used for storage. I continued following the young man until I was certain I would collapse.

We came to a set up of comfortable looking chairs surrounded by a wooden table. It looked as if the small chamber was used for this man's personal company. The vision of standing before a dangling rope became further back in my mind.

"_Mon dieu_," he repeated under his breathe. "Does this world hold no more surprises?" He asked as he pulled out a chair for me which I collapsed into.

I lazily looked back up to him. He had a large smile as he peeled off his leather gloves and tossed his brown worn in hat on the table before taking the seat across from me.

"You are a Trouillefou no doubt." I stated

He looked amused, "What makes you say that?"

"You men have such interesting taste... In hats."

He laughed looking to his wide brimmed ostrich feathered hat beside him before glancing back to me.

"You knew my father then?"

"I knew your King-your _true _King," I said causing him to raise a brow. "I also knew his father. Such great men."

The man nodded, "You know, I've heard legends of him and you. Clopin and you that is."

"Is that why you brought me here? To hear of times of lore, the mischievous antics of young and rebellious gypsies?"

"Are you really she?" he asked seeming to ignore my rant. "You said you had no name and she was stripped of hers."

"My name does not matter now," I answered feeling the roar of my empty stomach.

"But, if you are who I know you to be-"

"Then why would it matter? My true name, the name these gypsies gave to me, it has not been spoken aloud in thirty years. Not to me, any matter," his smile widened as a sudden question struck me. "If you think I'm all that then why did you not hang me yet?"

"My father told me once that if ever a sorry looking woman baring one golden earring with a red glass bead ever entered our Court, I should ask no questions and hang her." He leaned in closer to me lowering his voice here, "Clopin refused to ever tell me the true tale. You must know everything! Everything papa refused to tell me because I was too young."

"You'd be wise to listen to your father," I retorted.

"Yes, but now papa is dead and I am no longer young," he added with a smirk. I saw, for an instant, his father captured in that slow smile he shot to me. I leaned forward clutching my stomach.

"Yes, I heard he had died. What was it again, the stake or the noose?"

"Neither," began the man nonchalantly, "he was beaten to death by one of those morose guards. But that does not matter today, so tell me the story, please!"

"I am very weak Marious."

"A drink! You would perhaps like a drink, _non_?"

"A drink will do, yes. But it must be accompanied by a loaf of bread."

He nodded to me and in an instant I was met with a cup of wine and a day old loaf of wheat. I devoured the bread in a manner that the young man had probably never seen from a lady. He waited patiently though, his dirty, rouged hands folded neatly in front of him.

Finishing off the loaf, I leaned back into my chair, my thoughts wandering. For some reason, I let them wander aloud.

"I once loved, and hated, and lived for this hidden place. I danced around the tents and caravans, the homes of the people of the Court. I laughed along with other gypsy girls, I called them my sisters. I lived by the lawless freedom of a petty thief, with the all pride of the Romany. With all the hate I could muster."

"The Court of Miracles with Clopin as King," said the young man with wonder, "what a great time to be of the Rom!"

"You would think young Marious. A certain story comes to me now… one that makes me smile." I shook my head, "But that was so long past."

"You must remember _something." _

I looked to him blankly. Honestly, I remembered everything. I recall the long, heartening story kneeling in the muddy waters of the catacombs. Still the taste of cheap tavern brew lingers on my tongue. The sounds of a cheering crowd as he sang, the girls danced, and the other boy played the lute.

_Now, _I thought to myself, _I remember why I returned. _

"Well?" asked the King quietly, hope filling his dark eyes.

I was brought back to the present and looked up to Marious slowly.

"Yes, it began in the spring. Young Clopin was missing for days, his sister was pacing in her tent. She was so worried…"


	2. Ch 2

Clopin raced through the empty, moonlit, Parisian streets. He was running for all he was worth, as fast as his thin, young legs could carry him. As he made his mad dash, he appeared more like a floating shadow than human. A dark cape, just long enough to grace the ground, waved behind him. A thin arm was held out to his head holding his large feathered hat in place. Even with the extravagance of his clothing, he moved as swift and as mysterious as a stray black cat.

A stray black cat could be used to describe many aspects of his life, he thought. The stray cat that had a home but never yearned to stay. The cat that always threw together a quick plan for escape. Also, less desirably, the cat who had trouble following him like a blood hound on his trail.

Glancing to his back, Clopin swiftly disappeared into a shadowed alley. In the pitch black, he caught his breath leaning against the cold brick. A gloved hand fell across his face to his scruffy chin.

He could not recall a time where he was more scared, more tired, or more thankful in his life.

"Never again," he said aloud to himself with almost a laugh. Then, as if he had just thought of something, he looked up to the western sky. There, across the city, was the menacing Palace of Justice looming over Paris like a great stone beast.

He narrowed his brow and his moth fell into a disgusted frown. He lifted his cape to face, turned on his heal, and was gone.

* * *

At this moment, under the city Clopin had raced across, a young woman was worried half to death.

Seria had dealt with enough of her brother's tricks. Him, hiding behind a tent, sticking out one of his stick-like legs and tripping her for the whole Court to see. Him, telling Filip those lies about how she dreamed of him stark naked as a popinjay. And, of course, him disappearing from the Court for days on end leaving her worried sick.

Yes, Seria had more than enough of Clopin's antics.

Yet, tonight she was clinging to those childhood memories. However embarrassing they may be, she was worried they may by the only things left to remember him by.

It was late. The other gypsies were sleeping and the Court had fallen silent, more so than usual. On any other night, she would have been fast asleep comfortable as ever in her many soft sheets, but not on this night. Tonight, a single candle flickered in her small tent casting a shadow of her figure as she paced back and forth, back and forth…

Her father had told her not to worry. It was what she almost hated about him. The most regarded profit in France could predict his death within an hour and he would spend it dancing round the fire with a glass of red wine in hand proclaiming; "How great life is!"

Nevertheless, he had told her Clopin was only going through a phase he himself once had. He called it something like the wandering heart. Or, was it eye?

She shook her head. Clopin was missing and she was certain of it. Sure, once in a while he would leave the Court for days on end, but never had he vanished in this way. Sometimes she wished he was not Romany but gadje so perhaps he would have learned to write and leave a note. At least then her mind would be at ease.

Lost in her thoughts, she walked straight into her chest of clothes, stubbing her toe.

"Merde, merde, merde!" she cursed collapsing into her cushions in the corner of her tent.

"Such language from a lady! What would Papa think?" came a voice like a sudden warm breeze.

She looked to see a familiar lanky figure leaning at the entrance of her tent.

Immediately, she sprang to her feet, any pain disappearing. But, before she threw her arms around the man's shoulders she stopped herself.

"A lady oui. But you are one to talk. You're wicked enough for twenty-five men!"

He sauntered into her tent nodding to her words, "_Oui, oui, oui. _Twenty sinful men that wouldn't think twice of leaving their only sister to worry," he recited as if hearing it a hundred times before. He stopped in front of her taking off his large hat and throwing it to the side. His dark eyes bearing into her forced grimace.

It took a long moment for her to smile, but once the smirk crept onto her face he could no longer restrain his own wide grin.

She practically jumped into his large arms, the worries and fears she had built up for nights on end dissipating in one loving embrace. Even though she had rather slap him across the face, it was Clopin, and nothing else mattered.

Still, in all her happiness, she noted that something was different about him.

Yes he was very much the same; lanky, gangling limbs, large dark eyes, and all the poise you would expect from the King-to-be. He still beat her by half a foot in height even though she was of the tallest women in the Court. He was also still thin, he nearly felt skeletal in her arms.

With her head beside his shoulder she detected that he smelled of something she could not place.

"How long have I been gone?" he asked softy.

"One month," she answered without hesitation.

He raised his eyebrow looking to her face then, his hands on either side of her shoulders, "missed me have you, Ria?"

She held her tongue moving away from his outstretched arms.

"Damn you, of course I did!" she cried, "What in devil's name have you been up to, brother?"

He pulled of his heavy cape, it landed nearby covering her small chair, "have you not heard?" he asked. "I was on a pilgrimage back to our native lands! I can tell you, it was no easy feat hitching a ride the _entire _way to Romania."

She smiled to him, "_Non_," she said instantly catching his bluff.

He paused for a moment before restarting his grand tale, "Yes, fine, you've caught me you smart girl. I was in point of fact much closer than you think. It was a holiday with the priest that kept me away for so long."

She laughed aloud as he only stared to her seeming content with seeing her laugh.

"He was after, a bit more lively company you see. " Clopin continued, "Poor man, he was absolutely desperate for a laugh, not to mention the nearest Brothel," he added under his breathe.

"Clopin!" she cried, "You are lying!"

"Me?" he asked collapsing into her mound of cushions and sheets where she slept. He laid down placing his hands behind his head. "I would never lie to Ria. She knows far too much."

She giggled much too girlishly for her liking, "So. It's true. Why were you gone for so long? Didn't the priest grow tired of you?"

"Oh he did!" he exclaimed sitting up, "the bastard threw me to the streets after the first night. He tried changing me with his odd Catholic ways. I simply informed him that I am of the fullest blood Romany that come, and I would having to do with men that pledge celibacy!" he added.

"To the streets you say?" she asked ignoring has rant, "Why didn't you come home then?"

"I planned on returning to the Court but something got in my way. I was walking along the Seine when I heard a loud _SPLASH_!" he exclaimed, "I turned to see what it was when-"

"Clopin, it is you! I swore I heard your voice!" Proclaimed a woman bursting into the tent with arms wide open.

Clopin heaved an annoyed sigh, "When I was rudely interrupted by Markova Lee."

Seria smiled to the girl, "He's telling me a story, shush!"

Markova's joy deflated as her arms fell to her sides. She looked to Clopin as he lazily gazed up to her, his arms still behind his head.

"Well ignore me then! Perhaps I should just go back to bed," she whined turning to leave.

"Keep your voice down," Clopin instructed, "and stay why don't you? I am only kidding. You may listen to my story if you'd like."

"A story from Clopin Trouillefou?" she asked looking back to him, "I've heard truer accounts from the loonies on the streets!" she turned to leave again just as Clopin reached out his long arm and pulled her onto his lap by her skirt.

"There we are," he said as he had her in his arms, presenting her with a broad smirk.

She pushed away from him and found herself fallen onto the floor, Seria laughing along with the whole scene.

"And to think," Markova cried unable to hide a smirk of her own, "I almost missed you!"

He let his head fall back with a short laugh as Seria sat down on the floor beside her friend.

Both women were similar in many ways, and still, different in many more. Markova was much shorter with broad shoulders and a trim waist that flared out to present a womanly figure. Her long black hair traced the outline of her shoulders in messy, thick, waves.

She was a skilled dancer, and often boasted her body to the crowd without inhibition. Some would call this whore-like, but to women of the Court like Markova, it was a proud trait of having the utmost confidence.

Seria was much different than her favorite friend. For one, she was at least half a foot taller. Her height was something she once found most undesirable. Nearly all women she knew were quite petite with their delicate, small, features. It was something she envied, yet, learned to look past. After recently growing into her height and finally gaining enough fat to where she could no longer be mistaken for her brother, she too was finding some of the confidence her friend had acquired.

Though she did not exude it as Markova, there was something quite bewitching in Seria's large dark eyes, olive skin, and auburn hair. And besides, she too became known for her skills as a dancer, with what her long arms, long legs, and striking face. The gift of performing was an inherited trait that she shared along side her brother.

Both women were seventeen and born within a week apart. To each other, they were sisters. And even though it is true that every woman of the Court of Miracles is a sister to one another, Seria and Markova had something much closer than that.

"Marko," began Seria, "does my brother not appear at all _different _to you?"

Markova looked wryly to the man that reclined in front of her, "He appears to be just the same bastard I saw four weeks ago."

Clopin frowned, "I'm so glad everyone has missed me. Please, stop with your heartwarming welcomings. It's sickening me," he replied as dryly as he could.

"Because of you I was unable to afford my new skirt!" Markova cried," all I needed was one measly coin and due to your absence, no one dropped a single cent to our act!"

"Ah!" he exclaimed placing a gloved finger pointed in the air, "have you not yet leaned the crowd only pays to see the talented one?"

Seria raised an eyebrow "And you would be referring to…?"

"Myself of course!" he answered with dignity, "My voice, among other attributes, are what they drop their coin for."

"It is not!" Seria quickly retorted. "If I could remember that troubadour drivel, I'd sing it just as well."

"Troubadour drivel? _Cheri_, what I sing is what _our _people have been living by for decades! It's in me and when I am before a crowd, I cannot help myself."

"Mon duier! Will you shut up about yourself for a moment?" Markova exclaimed raising her voice even higher.

He gave her a sideways glance, "Filip!" he said suddenly, "Filip I bet has missed me!"

"Oh yes," began Markova in a sarcastic tone, "say, why don't you dash over his tent right this night. I'm sure the two of you have been _yearning _to get reacquainted."

Clopin took in a gasp of breathe and was about to fire back when Seria interfered, "Enough! What is this? We should be celebrating, not bickering."

Clopin shrugged, "It is this way every time I return," he quietly admitted, "which makes me question why I continue on doing it."

"Quiet," Seria whispered, "Please brother, I've been waiting to go out for weeks!"

Clopin only stretched out on the pile of cushions.

"I think actually I shall sleep tonight. I'm going to be the king and all, I should begin to practice at least a few decent morals. Morals that don't include fleeing the Court of Miracles for your seedy Parisian pubs."

"Well it's a perfect time for you to start up with _those _useless things!" said Markova getting up off the floor. "Morals for decent men after all, I can't see what a gypsy like you could do with them," she only half joked.

Seria raised herself from the ground as well as Clopin sat up, "I don't care how much the two of you whine, we are not leaving!"

"I'll take that as a _'yes Seria sister, Down to the tavern now! Drinks on me!'" _said Seria giving her best Clopin impression in a high jovial pitch.

"And I'll take that as a joke," he said heaving his lanky frame from the cushions and finding his cape to pull over his shoulders.

"Come on," said Markova at Clopin's side pulling on his hand, "you know we are only joking. We've been so bored without you."

"Yes!" he said with a smile, "you mustn't wait more than one hour to get the amiable vagabond prince in trouble."

"Trouble?" asked Seria with wide eyes, "my brother gets into trouble?"

He looked to her peeking under his hat. Markova and Seria smiled sweetly back. He sighed, acknowledging the fact that his heart was certainly not made of stone.

"I think it shall be a new record for you two then," he began, "getting me band from performing only minutes upon arrival."

"Come now," began Markova in a whisper as she left the tent, "well leave out the back just as before. No one will know."

"Ah yes. No one shall know. I believe I've heard that before," he said walking past her.

Seria quickly blew out the candle, "go find Filip," she ordered from inside her tent searching for her own cloak. "I believe he's in tonight."

"Meet me in the back exit. Be as quiet as you can" said Clopin as quietly as he could "not even the _smallest _whisper. I swear Remus has the ears of a fox for trouble."

Seria wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and tied the string around her neck as Markova waited.

"He's in an odd mood, don't you think?" asked the shorter of the two.

Seria laughed, "Odd for Clopin? Doesn't that sound normal to you?"

"You know what I mean. What did he tell you? Where was he for the past thirty days?"

Seria shrugged pulling out her thick black hair from under her cape, "He spoke riddles to me. You know how he gets. He probably married and had a child, but as for us, we'll never know the exact truth."

"Well it would seem he became a father. He's as dull as a nobleman tonight."

As they made their leave crossing the sleeping court, Markova insisted with her questions.

"Actually, he just seemed so different, in some way I can't place," she admitted to her friend.

"I, I'm not sure what you mean," said Seria even though she was thinking the same thought. Both wished they could think of a better reason for spotting this apparent difference.

Perhaps it was that he grew taller or became even thinner. Or perhaps it was for a completely other reason, something both girls knew was too awful to even speak of. A reason that was too difficult to even imagine, and speaking of it aloud would be like a hex, cursing the reason into existence. And even if this reason was not the real reason at all, it would be this hex that would make it into reality, and undeniably happen in the future.

Even if this notion was rather superstitious, it was their young Romany way of thinking.

"I'm certain he'll be the same old boy once he gets a few drinks into him," Markova said speaking up.

Seria nodded, "It may take more than a few, but I hope you're right."


End file.
